


We Need To Talk About "IT"

by Batastic_Grayson



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arguing, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Dimension Travel, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Home for Christmas, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage, OTP Feels, Parallel Universes, Personal Favorite, Stranded, SuperBat, Wayne Manor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batastic_Grayson/pseuds/Batastic_Grayson
Summary: Bruce and Clark have been friends for years, and they've also wanted to be more than that for nearly as many. They've just never talked about "it". But being stranded in an alternate universe where they're engaged just might make that conversation a little bit harder to avoid.





	1. Chapter 1

**_Clark_ **

 

“You know, it figures that _you_ would be the one to get us into this mess.” Bruce hisses, levelling me with a glower from over the collar of his jacket.

I choke back an eyeroll, but my tone of voice is making no attempts to hide how irritated I am. Being stranded in an alternate dimension with scrooge’s meaner brother will do that. Especially when said scrooge you’re stranded with insists on blaming you for _everything_. It’s not like I planned on saving our lives, but Bruce’s skull is about as thick as his pride, and he’ll never concede that this whole situation was unavoidable. No, it’s too enjoyable punishing me for him to let it go.

“ _Excuse you_? I’m not the one who suggested we check out that distress beacon in the first place—which I’d like to reiterate, was a _trap_.”

Bruce keeps up a brisk walk, expression sour and pinched as we hike up the gravel driveway, “Ah, but I’m not the one who fried the only _fucking_ thing that can get us home, now am I?” He pats his pocket meaningfully where the poor transceiver is lying in melted pieces.

I scoff, throwing up my hands. God, sometimes I could just strangle this man.

“What would you have had me do? Let those Gnarlack tear you to shreds waiting for the damn thing to thaw? I just gave it a little extra help.”

Vengeful eyes painted in sterling silver stare me down viciously as he wheels abruptly to face me, and I’m forced to grind to a halt or risk running square into him. I doubt a collision would improve my chances of diffusing the argument before it gets physical. Still, my hands are itching…

“You damn near melted the circuits is what you did _and_ you stranded us in the middle of God knows where. Now we have to hope that this universe isn’t too dissimilar from our own so I can fix this piece of shit,” he pulls the remote from his coat pocket and jiggles it in front of my face for dramatic effect, “or else we may be stuck here permanently.”  

We stare at each other for long moments in thick silence, breath fogging between us as we stand toe to toe. His cheeks are flushed with irritation, his eyes gone dark like obsidian, hands coiled at his sides into fists. His posture reeks of someone spoiling for a fight and I feel my own hands twitching to inflict damage.

But…that wouldn’t help anybody and I know it. I also know Bruce. He wouldn’t be this angry if he weren’t a little bit concerned that we might be stuck here forever. And so close to Christmas too. If the boys ever found out that I was the one who stranded their dad in a parallel universe, they’d kill me. Alfred too. The first sprouts of guilt start taking root, like pesky wildflower seeds somewhere in my gut, and I can’t help but wilt a bit with the newfound emotion.

I sigh, forcing what’s left of my anger into submission. I purposefully take a step backwards, working to keep my tone level. It won’t do to kill each other. Not yet anyway.

“Look, Bruce…I’m sorry I stranded us here, but I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”

I can see my bid for peace works, if only slightly. His eyes cool from that molten color to something like fine pewter, and he draws in a deep breath. Bruce may have a temper like a banshee on him, but he’s not unreasonable when you know how to work him.

“I had those Gnarlack under control.”

I arch a disbelieving brow and take a bit of a risk by lifting my chin, “They were about to decapitate you.”

Bruce shakes his head ruefully, and we resume walking again side by side, this time slower. “I had a plan, you know.”

I hum, eyes narrowed, “I feel like you’re just saying that to hide the fact that I saved your ass.”

Bruce’s mouth twitches, just the slightest of bits, and it isn’t hard to see when he’s dropped the hatchet. His eyes always look a bit like seafoam when he forgives you, something soft and rare in their color, and I feel my stomach untighten a bit. I don’t like being at odds with him, not ever. It’s a relief that he’s usually willing to accept the olive branch, or I would’ve gone crazy a long time ago trying to mend fences between us.

I smile now, bumping my shoulder with his, “Come on, admit it. You were a _little_ bit scared.”

Bruce grunts, but a smirk is dancing at the corners of his lips when he shakes his head and arches a dark brow at me, “Careful, Clark. I’m still angry at you for stranding us here three days before Christmas.”

I let out a puff of air, watching it dissolve into a white cloud of mist. We’re almost to the house, if this universe is anything like ours. A few more turns, and we’ll be standing on the doorstep of the manor, praying that a kindhearted (and hopefully nocturnally inclined) Bruce Wayne is answering the door. If our luck holds, maybe he’ll have the right parts to fix our ride home.

Or we’ll just be stuck here. Forever.

I sigh, tucking my hands into my coat pockets. “Believe me, I’m not too happy about it either. Alfred is going to kill me if I don’t return you in one piece by Christmas dinner.”

“He’s going to kill us _both_ , you mean. He’s been planning this dinner for months—something about roast quail and an even number of table settings.”

I chuckle, thinking that it sounds just like the old man to be concerned about table settings and who will be there to enjoy his cooking. “You know, sometimes I think you two just invite me because I’ll eat whatever you don’t. What’s the term Dick uses?”

“Garbage disposal? Vacuum cleaner?” Bruce lifts a knowing brow, smiling, “Yeah, well…Alfred enjoys an appreciative eater, and you never fail to compliment the chef, do you?”

I snort, “Remind me to bring my appetite then if I want to keep getting invitations.”

There’s a beat of silence between us, and I see him frown in peripheral. Eventually, he brushes his shoulder with mine, voice quiet and suddenly serious, “You know you’re practically family, Clark. I… _we_ enjoy having you around. Even without an invitation.”

It’s the firm band of friendship and family and that frightening something _unnamed_ that holds us together, and has for ten years now, but every time it comes up I’m painfully aware of it. We don’t talk about _it_ , but the evidence it leaves is strong. We spend too much time together to deny it really. It’s there. The lingering glances, the wayward phone calls, the vacant love lives. Rumors fly and people talk, but nothing ever changes. _It_ remains unnamed.

We’ve just never bothered to broach it further. I don’t know if we ever will. The friendship we share is comfortable and safe, and talking about things we can’t have is…dangerous. Like looking out over a cliff. Are there rocks or meadows at the bottom?

I swallow something that feels like a tennis ball wedged in my throat, forcing my gaze downward. Bruce has a habit of looking into me like a sheet of blue glass, completely transparent. I’m afraid that if I look up, he might just see my thoughts. And so I stare at my feet, making mirror footsteps of Bruce’s beside mine.

I sniff, giving a brief nod, “Well…thanks Bruce. That means a lot.”

He doesn’t say anything in reply really, but he squeezes my forearm briefly. It’s enough. We don’t have to say more, even though we probably should. For now, I’m content with just this.

A few minutes later, we’ve rounded the last corner and we emerge from the wooded section of Wayne Manor’s driveway. The gravel crunches beneath our feet in tandem with heavy snow as we trudge for the arched doorway, both feeling a bit wary. With the transceiver broken, it’s near impossible for Bruce to tell which dimension we’ve travelled to. Bruce Wayne may not exist in this universe at all, or he might not be Batman. We could receive a warm greeting or a cool one. It’s a game of Russian roulette, except we didn’t have the privilege of loading the gun. There’s no telling what could be waiting for us.

We stop at the doorway for a breathless moment, exchanging a glance between us. It’s Bruce who finally lifts a shoulder as if to say _what the hell_ and lifts the iron knocker. It thuds against the door three times. Not thirty seconds later and the door is parting to reveal Alfred, dressed in a pressed suit, pencil-thin mustache, and a set of arched brows.

Bruce clears his throat, offering an expression that might pass as friendly to the untrained eye. I can see the lines pressing between his brows though. He’s worried. “We’re looking for Bruce Wayne.”  

It isn’t entirely poor tidings when Alfred sighs, steps back from the doorway to allow us entry, and utters the dry words, “He’s been expecting you.”

We follow Alfred to the study, a path I know like I would my own home at this point. I spend the few moments of silence we’re afforded glancing around us, making sure everything looks the same. I note only two shifted paintings and an urn that’s missing, but otherwise, the Manor looks unchanged from ours. It still smells like lemon polish and old wood, warm with firelight and old things. If I closed my eyes, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine that we’re back in our own dimension it’s so similar.

I give Bruce a sideways glance when we’re left in the study with a promise that Master Wayne will be informed of our ‘arrival’. Bruce spares no time in poking around the room, checking through the books on the walls with an analytical eye I wish I possessed. He murmurs that we’ve gotten lucky. This Bruce is likely a vigilante as well, judging by his knowledge of our presence in this dimension.

He thumbs the spine of a book, gaze narrowed, “He must be monitoring the energy fluctuations between dimensions.”

I frown, crossing a leg over my knee. I keep watching the doorway, waiting for Bruce’s clone to come poking around the corner. I wonder if he’ll look the same.

“How would he know it was us though?”

“Each person carries an energy signature specific to their genetic code. It doesn’t alter too much between dimensions, and he likely has his own energy signature on file in case he receives copies from other universes. If he’s acquainted with your counterpart in this world, I wouldn’t doubt that his is on file as well.”

He says this all with his back turned to me at the bookcases, almost casually, like it should be common knowledge. I smile to myself, opening my mouth to say something in return. However, as luck would have it, this is the exact moment when Bruce’s carbon copy strides into the room. He’s virtually indistinguishable from mine, wearing a grey corded pullover and a glower, but his hair’s a little bit longer. Maybe a few more grey hairs? His eyes are maybe a touch lighter when he levels us both with a cursory glance and arches a singular, black brow.  

“So, I see you finally made it.”

Bruce turns to face himself, expression impassive and calm, “You were expecting us.”

Bruce 2, who I mentally decide to call Wayne for the sake of clarity, lifts a shoulder, “Naturally. Your energy signatures registered yesterday. If you are anything like me, I figured it was only a matter of time before you made your way here.”

There is a beat of silence, and Wayne inhales a sigh, seating himself on the opposite couch with an elegant dip. He looks the picture of blasé impatience, and the expression is so familiar, that I have a hard time not chuckling when he gestures vaguely.

“The only thing I’m left questioning are your intentions here. If you come in peace, then we have no quarrel. If you come in violence…then you may find my welcome less than friendly.”

Bruce’s lips twitch in a bit of a smile, like he’s looking into a flattering, humorous mirror, and he strides slowly back to the couch. He seats himself next to me with the same fluid grace of his reflection, withdrawing the transceiver from his pocket. “Our visit is unintentional actually.”

I bump Bruce’s shoulder with mine, clearing my throat. “But we’re not seeking a fight. We just want to be home in time for Christmas.”

Wayne’s eyes flicker to the mangled transceiver, before they dip to me, all cool silver and mirth, “Your handywork I take it, Clark?”

“Guilty, although it wasn’t intentional.”

 Wayne smirks as he takes the proffered transceiver and turns it over in his hands several times. When his gaze rises to me again, it’s amused and entirely too familiar. “Hell of a job destroying it.”

I can’t help the little nervous chuckle that escapes when two Bruce Waynes are watching me with brows lifted. It’s a bit like being cornered by two panthers with a steak in my hands. I can’t decide if I’m nervous…or intrigued.

Bruce gestures at the melted heap of metal and wires, “I don’t suppose you have a replacement?”

Wayne turns it over once more, eyeing the mechanisms protruding crookedly from the back, “Unfortunately, no. I’ve been working on a prototype similar to this design, but I don’t have anything completed yet.” He lifts a shoulder, passing back the transceiver to Bruce fluidly, “But we might be able to repair that one to functionality within a couple days, provided you’re familiar with the original schematics of this design.”

Bruce lifts a brow, and I recognize the flash of a challenge in his eyes when he nods, “Of course.”

“Well, in that case, we’ll start tinkering after we’ve eaten.” Wayne gives a pert nod, expression impassive and serene.

He seems in no hurry when he leans back into the couch and crosses his arms over his chest, “But until Alfred finishes,” he glances at his wristwatch briefly here, “I could use a good story. How did you two end up here?”

If Bruce is bothered by Wayne’s leisurely pace, he doesn’t show it. He settles deeper into the couch next to me and starts recounting how we almost died at the hands of interdimensional organ salvagers.

 

It’s an hour later when dinner is finally announced, much the same as in our dimension. It feels a bit strange following after Bruce and Wayne as they walk shoulder to shoulder, discussing the fundamentals of universal travel in quiet, whispered tones. They’ve become instant friends over the past hour, a familiarity you only gain with Bruce if you actually _are_ Bruce evidently, and I trail after them silently.

It’s when we’ve seated ourselves at the dining room table that I hear someone come in through the kitchen door. He murmurs a greeting to Alfred, sets down a heavy bag. His gait is familiar to me, but I can’t quite pick out the identity of the person who’s trudging up the kitchen stairs to join us. Bruce and Wayne are still engaged in quiet conversation across from each other as I try to figure out which of the boys we might meet.

To my surprise, it’s… _myself_ who comes striding through the dining room doorway. White button up shirt, loosened tie in red, brown loafers. Thick-framed glasses and untamable hair. It’s like looking in a disturbingly accurate mirror come to life.

I blink at myself, watching him as his eyes sweep the room and find me and Bruce seated at the other side of the table. He lifts a brow, but he doesn’t seem as surprised as he should be. I gather he was tipped off to the situation, because he doesn’t ask any questions when he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair next to Wayne.

Wayne’s eyes dip to Clark’s, momentarily pulled from the conversation by his presence. He smiles slightly, murmuring a hello, and I watch in quiet surprise when Clark dips to offer Wayne a quick peck on the lips.

I blink, my brain stilting around the image of the two as they sit next to each other and swivel their gazes back to us casually. I can tell Bruce noticed the little display of affection as well because his voice has stalled slightly, and a quick glance in my periphery tells me that he’s blinking rapidly too. Like trying to clear an impossible mirage.

Did that just happen? Did I just imagine that? Or are we really… _together_ in this universe?

                I try to catch Bruce’s gaze, as if I can whisper _did you just see that too_ with my eyes, but I think he’s purposefully avoiding me. He keeps his eyes straight forward, picking up his conversation with only a slight cough. Wayne nods thoughtfully, seemingly unperturbed by the sudden awkwardness in the room.

                Clark too, seems unfazed by our owlish blinking when the conversation lulls and he leans across the table to offer us both a firm handshake. He smiles warmly when he takes our hands, “Well, this a bit surreal. Like looking in a mirror. I’m Clark, by the way.”

                We nod and shake hands, but my mind keeps going back to that kiss again and again. Replaying it like a weird fever dream I can’t seem to forget.  How long have they been an item? When did that even start and _how_? I mean, sure, I’ve entertained thoughts of Bruce and I broaching _it_ for years, but to actually do something about it? It seems impossible. And yet here’s this entire universe, where he and I somehow get involved with each other.

I keep glancing at Bruce, desperate to catch his eyes. I want to know what he’s thinking about this. Is he shocked? Surprised? Disgusted? His reaction is suddenly vitally important to me.

I can’t seem to focus on Clark or Wayne as they speak, I’m so wrapped up in my inner dialogue. It isn’t until I hear the damning words, “So, how long have you two been together?” that I’m pulled from my own swirling thoughts to the sound of Bruce choking on his asparagus.

It’s a question that feels like a douse of cold water down my shirt, and I blink back to reality as Bruce is taking a sip of water to get his mouthful down. A glance across the table shows Wayne shaking his head slightly, murmuring something disapproving I don’t care to listen to in Clark’s ear. I feel color rise from my collarbones to my cheeks, sweat peppering my brow when I manage to fumble out a stuttering, “Oh, we’re—we’re not…we’re just—”

“Friends.” Bruce finishes for me when he’s managed to swallow. I suddenly don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see how disgusted he might be with the idea of us being together, not when I’m feeling this embarrassed at least. I feel fragile and not entirely sure of what’s reality and what isn’t.

Clark blinks, looking stunned when he offers a soft, “Oh, I’m sorry. I just—I assumed that you two were…”

Clark looks as embarrassed for asking as I feel, and the silence stretches for an uncomfortably long time as we all stare at our napkins and try to pretend nobody said anything. But the question lingers in the air like a heavy cloud, acrid and painful and awkward. Impossible to avoid.

Oh hell. Just shoot me now. This is horrible.

I clear my throat, pushing the potatoes around with my fork to avoid looking up. “So, um…how long have you two been…” I feel Bruce tense next to me.

God, I can’t even finish the sentence.

Clark inhales slightly, and I can hear a moment of deliberation between the two. I look up, find Clark counting on his fingers, Wayne whispering something to him beneath his breath. Their heads are leaned in close to each other, and I think they may even be holding hands beneath the table. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Hell, it _looks_ natural.

Eventually, Clark shrugs, cheeks a bit flushed as he chuckles, “Well, we’ve been together for, what babe…three and half years now? Engaged last April.”

I nod, drawing in a steadying breath. Oh my God. They’re engaged. Engaged. _Engaged_! “Oh. How—nice. When’s the wedding?”

A smiling look exchanged between the two, like they’re speaking their own language without words. It’s such a warm moment between them, I have to look away. I feel like I’m seeing something privately intimate, and it makes my chest ache.

I can hear Bruce’s heart thundering next to me. I don’t dare look at him.

“February 1st.”

I swallow, feeling like I’m choking on a rock. I force my gaze back up to Wayne and Clark, making myself smile. I feel a bit sick actually. “Well congratulations. That’s wonderful.”


	2. Chapter 2

**_Bruce_ **

****

It isn’t wonderful. It’s the exact _opposite_ of wonderful in fact.

I can feel the bombardment of questions in Clark’s gaze all evening, like he’s just waiting until we’re alone to unleash the flood. It’s why I keep my eyes averted and keep my chin tucked. I listen to Wayne’s theories on dimensional travel, fiddle with the charred transceiver, and at all costs, I do _not_ look at Clark.

Maybe it’s a bit cowardly. I should face the issue head-on, rebuke all claims that this dimension is anything like ours. I could field questions about our evident romance in this universe like an adult…but the fact is, I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about _it._ That very ugly, very secret, we’re never going to talk about it, _it_. I would be more than comfortable if we never spoke of this. I could die peacefully forgetting about this whole fiasco and the strange, unspoken things it unearths between us.

Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. But who am I kidding, really?

My mind’s eye is still trained on our interdimensional counterparts, how they moved around each other like magnets, how their hands linked beneath the table the moment they met. Their easy conversation, the strange way in which they watch one another, their physical closeness. Every tiny, intentional detail of their interactions is seared into my brain, as if it is of vital importance to me. And I can’t help but compare it to Clark’s and my relationship.

Is it really so dissimilar? Are we really that close to being—

I quash the thought savagely, irritated that I’m even considering _acting_ on this. Granted, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve viewed Clark with what some might call hunger. I know myself well enough to know that my feelings for him have never been entirely platonic. But it’s not something I’m prepared to act on. Ever. Especially not when I’ve worked so damn hard to keep things strictly friendly between us.

If I were to just give up now, it would spell disaster for the both of us. Just friends. Just colleagues. Just partners. Never more. We can’t be.

I’m fully prepared to tell Clark as much the second we get a moment alone without the other two watching us. That’s what I keep saying over and over in mind. I’ll quiet whatever strange thoughts he’s having, or better yet, I’ll dismiss them completely. That will be the end of it all.

This is what I’m thinking…until the very moment when Wayne and Kent are closing us into a bedroom with a friendly goodnight and the silence falls thick, ugly, and impenetrable between us. I catch Clark’s eyes for the first time all evening as we look into the dark bedroom holding two full beds with a sliver of a nightstand between them, and I instantly regret it. His gaze is far too open for discussion, far too bent on pulling me out of my shell like an unwilling clam. If experience tells me anything, it’s that he’ll pick and pick and _pick_ until I come out screaming like a goddamn banshee.

But I’ll also spew the ugly, hidden truths I am trying so desperately to keep under wraps.

And so I drop my eyes from his and immediately decide that silence is the best avenue. I can ignore this. I can.

What I don’t count on is Clark’s headstrong nature. I was a fool to forget how stubborn he can be, but it isn’t five minutes into getting ready for bed that he’s sighing loudly and throwing down a spare toothbrush loudly. I know I’m in for a real treat when he stops at the bathroom doorway, levels me with a withering blue gaze, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“So…are we just ignore the whole ‘our interdimensional counterparts are engaged and halfway to babies and a picket fence’ thing? Or was I just the only one who noticed that?”

I turn my back on him, grateful for the cover as I stoop to plug in my telecoms device. It won’t do us much good here, but it will be wise to have it charged for when we are able to get home.

“I didn’t think the topic worth further discussion.”

“Further? What do you mean further?”

I straighten, working to stem the blood that has begun pumping faster in my ears. It’s beginning to sound cacophonous and I am painfully aware that Clark can likely hear it. “Exactly what I said. I don’t think it’s worth further discussion.”

I hear feet padding closer to me, irritation making their gait heavier. “ _Further_ implies that we’ve talked about it already, which we haven’t by the way.” I hear him scoff, the footsteps growing closer. “And I don’t know how you are not completely freaked out over this. Here I am questioning _everything_ , and you’re just—cool as a cucumber? This doesn’t effect you even in the slightest?”

I turn with a sigh, unsurprised to find Clark standing behind me with his hands planted square on his hips, eyes a careful shade of cornflower. He’s angry with me. I know enough about him to note the tick of pulse beside the column of his throat, the slight color flushing his cheeks. The tense of his hands, the energy poised in his broad shoulders, tells me he’s willing to jump in the trenches and drag me out kicking and screaming to fight over this.

I feel tired and frustrated just thinking about it.

I level him with an arched brow, hoping he can’t sense the wobble in my tone when I shrug and say, “No. It doesn’t affect me, because it isn’t any of my business.”

He scoffs, cheeks still ruddy and hair disarrayed from running his fingers through it anxiously, “It’s entirely our business. They’re _us_ and they’re _together_. Doesn’t that change anything for you? _Confirm_ anything?”

I fold my arms over my chest, feeling the spindly fingers of unease and irritation start to crawl from the base of my spine. I don’t like feeling trapped into sharing feelings, and it’s certainly starting to seem like Clark is the matador and I am the bull. I don’t care for it. Not one bit.

“No. It doesn’t change anything, because they aren’t us. This is a different dimension, Clark. They are different people. What _they_ consider a possibility, would be an _impossibility_ for us.”

He blinks, taking a small step backward. His voice is quiet, almost quiet enough to hear my heart racing between us. “Impossible?”

I inhale a sharp breath, pinching my nose between my thumb and forefinger. The irritation is mingling with panic now, as if I’m the mouse trapped between a corner and a very large cat. So I do what I do best. I force myself to lie.

“Yes, Clark. Impossible, improbable. Completely unfounded and baseless. _Imaginary_. Whatever this might have changed for you, it hasn’t changed for me.” I force my tone to level out, force my throat to work past a swallow. “Now move. I want to go to bed and you’re blocking me.”

Clark’s brows lift in surprise, blue eyes falling to a shade of color I don’t even have a name for when his features settle back into a frown. It’s the first vestiges of hurt that are starting to crowd his features, the kind of pain that I inevitably inflict whenever this topic dares to makes itself known, and my gut cramps uncomfortably. God, I hate this. I hate the look he’s giving me. It’s like I’ve kicked him.

Worse, I hate how solidly the betrayal rings in his voice when he stares at me and murmurs, “Why are you lying to me? Why won’t you just admit it?”

_I’m lying to you, because I want you to stop talking. I’m afraid. I don’t want to talk about this. Not ever. Not if it means I might lose you in the process._

“Admit what?”

His mouth parts in silence for a moment, but Clark has never been one to tuck tail and run. He’s tough and braver than he’s given credit for. Stubborn resolve flairs in his seafoam eyes, mouth firming as he lifts his chin slightly. “That I’m not the only one who’s felt something is… _different_ between us. Something more than just friends. We haven’t talked about it and I’ve been okay with that, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Hearing the words said out loud is little bit like being punched in the gut. The breath I was about to release stays expanded in my ribcage, pressing into my heart which is beating so loud it might as well be a drum. I feel paralyzed for a long moment with terror, unable to do anything but stare at him. His Prussian blue eyes flicker over my face, measuring and judging my reaction, his brow wrinkled in thought. He’s frightfully close to me, so close in fact that I can smell his aftershave. Something cheap and faintly reminiscent of pine…

God, there it is again. That hunger I keep denying, over and over again.

It would be so easy to lean in. To just take and admit what it is he wants me to. It would be the truth, for once. I wouldn’t have to lie or force it. We could be honest. We could let time carry us where it clearly wants to.

But if I let that happen…if I went down that path, the inevitable would occur. I would break Clark’s heart. It wouldn’t be intentional, but it would happen all the same. I’m too coarse for him, too rough to handle someone else in my life gently. I’m selfish and rude and damaged. My inner storm would suck Clark in and use him up. I would break him on accident like anyone else who gets too close…and then I would lose him forever.

_I can’t lose you. Not ever._

It’s a frightening moment of clarity, hearing that thought run through my mind like a scream.

So instead of leaning forward, instead of pressing my mouth to his like I should, I weave steel into my frame like an iron exoskeleton and I glare. “Move, Clark.”

His expression fissures like ice splitting open under heat, the column of his throat working when he shakes his head, “No. Not until you admit that this isn’t all in my head. That I haven’t—” His voice cracks, features wilting into something wounded and vulnerable, “That I haven’t just imagined it. Tell me I’m not the only who feels this…this _thing_ between us.”

It takes all I have to keep my mouth pressed into a firm line, to keep myself from just saying all the things that are boggling around in my mind. But that would be a mistake. I would hurt him. I would hurt us both, and I don’t have the strength to weather that.

This changes nothing.

I shake my head with a soft sigh, stepping around Clark and heading for the door. I don’t bother telling him where I’m going, and I especially don’t look over my shoulder before the latch falls into place behind me. I’m afraid that I might see him standing between the two beds, looking after me with broken pieces of himself in his hands, asking me why I wouldn’t just tell the truth.

Why can’t I just admit this?

I’m halfway downstairs before I realize where I’m going. It’s only when I start padding down the kitchen stairs, arms wrapped tightly around my middle, that I realize I’m headed for the fridge. It’s a familiar habit of mine to get a cup of tea and a snack when I’m upset or irritated. In this case, I’m hoping the warm drink will help to unwind the knots in my chest. Maybe it will help clarify the strange pattern of my thoughts.

I make myself a cup of earl grey silently, gathering a few biscuits in one hand. I decide to head for the solar, where I know the floor to ceiling windows will be overlooking snow-laden grounds awash in moonbeams. In our own universe, it’s my favorite place to think and gain perspective. Being this close to Christmas, I have no doubt that a tree will be decorated there. The fireplace might even still be going if I’m lucky.

Guilt and something searingly uncomfortable gnaws at my chest, pressing firmly beneath my breastbone all the way to the solar. I wonder what Clark is thinking? Feeling? It’s this that keeps me distracted enough that I don’t hear the sounds of low speaking until I’m just outside the arched doorway. I pull to an abrupt stop at the corner, sparing a quick peek into the room to see what company I have.

I find Kent and Wayne moving around the Christmas tree in the far corner, busying themselves with adding strings of popcorn, family ornaments and colored lights. They’re nearly finished decorating, and I catch the low strands of their conversation as they discuss the holiday season and the upcoming wedding and the boys. Their manner of speaking is familiar, gentle and playful all at once. They tease one another relentlessly, and it seems as if they’re almost always touching each other in one way or another.

If it isn’t brushing fingers, it’s a lingering kiss or a shared embrace or a pinch on the bottom. It’s like watching gravity at work, drawing the two of them together again and again. It’s physics, it’s nature, it’s everything in between. Their interactions are kind, tempered with the kind of friendship born from heartache and long years, and sometimes they fall into silence for long periods. They don’t seem to mind.

I don’t know how long I watch them moving around the tree together. Seeing them together, watching them enjoy what I cannot…it’s like pressing on a bruise. Exquisitely painful. Beauty and agony in one. I can’t help but torture myself from a distance.

By the time Kent is leaning into Wayne’s back, murmuring something about going up to bed and enjoying a nightcap, my chest is aching. Wayne chuckles, makes a remark about Kent’s insatiable appetite, and kisses him soundly. My stomach cramps with envy, hot and unpleasant, when they link hands and leave the room through the opposite door.

I release a breath I hadn’t known I was holding until then and I move into the solar quietly. My chest feels heavy, like someone’s tied a weight to my ribcage. I sit on the sofa in front of the window, watching the snow fall in heavy flakes to the blanketed ground. I think of things I can’t have. Of kept secrets and quiet glances and lovers that can’t be. I think of blue eyes and dark hair.

I don’t drink my tea or eat my biscuits. I find that my appetite is long gone.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_Clark_ **

****

                Bruce doesn’t come back to our room until it’s well past decent hours. His presence fluctuates the atmosphere of the already cool bedroom colder, and I listen with my back to him as he climbs into his bed with a heavy sigh. I listen to his breathing long enough to hear it go level with sleep, and I finally let myself release the breath I hadn’t known I was holding. Even just having him in the same room with me again is a bit like being kicked in the stomach, and I sit nursing my self-pity for long minutes, pondering his breath and listening to our earlier conversation playing on repeat through my thoughts.

                Even just listening to my words threading over and over again in my mind makes me want to scream with frustration. It was so stupid, so fucking _idiotic_ , to think that Bruce would respond well to a head on approach. I knew it the moment I confessed my feelings and his eyes flitted wide with panic. Hell, I knew it before that, when he stubbornly refused to meet my gaze all evening. I squeeze my eyes shut in irritation, hearing my voice cracking in my memories like some lovesick puppy.

                _What did you expect, Clark? That he would want to link hands and sing kumbaya with you over a romantic bottle of wine? Did you_ honestl _y think he would ever admit he has feelings for you?_

                God, yes! Yes, it’s what I had stupidly expected. Maybe not an outright admission, but perhaps something softer than what I was given. Of course, who am I kidding? This is _Bruce_. He’s the most intelligent man in any room, capable of solving just about any puzzle you put in front of him, but you’d have catch him on his deathbed to get him to confront any sort of emotional baggage. He’s always been content to let things fester and rot, rather than dealing with them. It’s what makes him so good at his job, and also what makes being his friend so hard. You have to be okay with running into wall after wall after wall, because you know, eventually, you’ll find a door. Eventually, you’ll break through even scar tissue and false gusto that you’ll find the real him. And it will all be worth it.

                When did I cease being okay with walls and start wanting doors?

                I turn onto my back with a sigh, watching the ceiling as the light starts shifting towards dawn. Bruce’s breathing is still deep and measured, and I risk a quick glance in his direction. His features are hazy in sleep, relaxed and faded like worn jeans. His lips are parted in a slight snore, his midnight hair disarrayed and unkempt. He shifts, scowls in his sleep, and buries his face in the down pillow with a sigh.

                The anger in me softens, and in its place, that cool, deadly bit of sorrow makes itself known. I feel it like a pair of fingers climbing up my stomach, making nausea turn in the pit of my abdomen, and I press the heel of my palm to my sternum to stem the pain growing. It doesn’t help. In fact, it only seems to grow.

                I suppose it was about a year ago that I really noticed a change. Whereas I had always noted Bruce with respect, some physical attraction, and certain fondness, I had chalked it up to friendly admiration. I had decided not to broach the chemistry between us out of fear, and I’d been content to just be his best friend, because truly, it had been enough. The bond between us was strong, but it hadn’t been something I needed to take further. I’d been satisfied with the silence.

                But then…things had started shifting.

                I started dreaming about being involved with one another physically and emotionally a few times a week. Whereas passing thoughts had been common and unbothersome, I was suddenly consumed with nighttime fantasies and daydreams of friends turned lovers. I told myself it was just hormonal changes or maybe it was because I hadn’t dated in so long…I was desperate, right? It meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

                So I ignored it. I buried it deep inside myself because I didn’t think it was possible. It faded into my subconscious and I discarded my thoughts of us ever becoming something more. I reasoned that my increased attachment was just another level of friendship, and not, in fact, blooming feelings of love.

                But if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s unaware of myself.

                And this newest development, this confirmation that we _could_ exist…it changes things for me. It renews all those feelings I smothered out of fear, and it validates them.

                I shift out of bed before the night has fully shifted into the day, when the world is still a haze of peachy purples and mourning doves lingering outside window panes. I creep from the bedroom in my borrowed pajamas, trying not to glance at Bruce when I slip out the door. I fail entirely, and I spend the next few minutes with my thoughts replaying his sleeping figure juxtaposed with his harsh words, over and over. Like watching a tragic play based solely on irony from front row seats, only I didn’t buy the tickets.

                It would be so much better if I could just shut my mind off.

                I sigh heavily when I make it to the kitchen, my thoughts already deviating to images of breakfast food. It’s early enough that I’ll likely have the run of the pantry. I’m surprised then when I round the corner and find Kent leaning out of the fridge with a bowl of cereal tucked into his elbow.

                He notes my presence with a friendly smile that is still shockingly reflective of my own, dipping his chin as he pours milk over his corn flakes, “Morning.”

                I clear my throat, trying to smother the awkward flare of anxiety that tries to crop up in my middle. “Oh, hey.”

                I step around him to the pantry, opening it and staring at the myriad of sugary cereals organized neatly by color. I pull out the lucky charms and pour myself a bowl, trying to ignore the silent study of Kent from across the kitchen island. I can tell he’s noting my appearance, probably wondering why I look so godawful tired. Maybe he knows already.

                It’s when I’ve settled a few barstools away from him with my own cereal that he sniffs and lays his spoon down. “Long night?”

                I shift uncomfortably, lifting a shoulder. Normally, I would be more inclined to strike up a conversation with myself, if only for the sake of curiosity. But I’m sleep-deprived and feeling just a little bit jealous that this version of myself gets to have all the happiness and domestic tranquility that I am so desperately starved for. If I could be physically green with envy, I would be.

                I see Kent adjust on his barstool on my periphery, settling his forearms on the countertop with a soft sigh, “Look, I, uh…I wanted to say sorry for asking if you two were together last night.” I keep my eyes on my cereal, watching the colored marshmallows dissolve in the milk with too much curiosity as he continues. “Bruce and I talked last night, and I…well, I know I probably made you two really uncomfortable by assuming.”

                I shake my head, feeling quite small when I murmur, “No, it’s alright. We weren’t offended.”

                Kent nods, and I find myself looking up to him without my permission. It’s hard to feel too jealous when he looks so penitent. “Well, even so. I sometimes forget that our dimensional counterparts aren’t the same us, and when you two showed up looking so…”

                I hold my breath, “So…”

                He shrugs, expression shifting towards chagrin as he offers a small smile, “Friendly…comfortable with each other, I guess? I just assumed you two were a couple.”

                I nod, struggling to reign in my heart rate which has been steadily climbing for the past few minutes. I set my spoon down in my unfinished cereal. “It’s okay, really. You couldn’t have known.”

               We fall silent for a moment, and the kitchen begins to feel like an old chapel with the light seeping in through the windows. Dawn in the Wayne manor is always painted in soft hues of color, undisturbed by Gotham’s fog, and it’s a truly beautiful sight when you catch it at the right time. Dust motes and beams of weak morning light, the birds singing just beyond midcentury glass and ivy climbing over old stones. The sound of the surf beating against timeworn rocks and the gentle drip of the leaky garden hose outside the back door. Quiet, peaceful, warm. It feels like home.

              It grows so peaceful between us that I hardly mind when Kent leans back in his chair, blue gaze flickering over to me hesitantly. My jealousy is fading into something painful and gentle, more like yearning and a strange sort of gratitude. It’s as if I know one of us enjoying a happy ending is better than none.

              It takes Kent a moment to speak again, but I’m not surprised when he takes a sip of his tea and inhales softly. “Was he upset?”

              I blink up from my cereal, disintegrating into colored milk and soggy remnants. “Who?”

              Kent lifts a brow, “Bruce. When you confronted him…was he upset?”

              I don’t know why it shocks me that he knows, but it does. I sit in befuddled silence for a moment, feeling like I’m sitting beneath a very discerning microscope. I shift uncomfortably. “How do you know I confronted him?”

              “Let’s just say I have a bit of experience in having that particular conversation…and you two were making eyes at each other all night after you found out we were engaged.” Kent doesn’t seem fazed when I look to him with wide eyes, and he just shrugs lightly, expression soft with understanding, “Let me guess, you confronted him, and he curled into his shell like he always does. Got defensive, angry, and probably attacked you with some verbal barbs, right?”

                I nod mutely. God, this conversation is unnerving.

                Kent sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, “I suspected as much. Have you ever heard of sister dimensions?”

                I lift a shoulder, “Bruce has mentioned them a few times, but never gone into detail. I was never interested enough to ask further.”

                “To put in concisely, sister dimensions are two states of reality that are only separated by very small details. So minute that their past and future are nearly identical. Think of them as…fraternal twins in cosmic terms.” Kent taps his fingers on the countertop, brows knitting into a slight frown, “Bruce, _my_ Bruce I mean…he told me that he identified your dimension when he detected your energy signatures. It’s a sister dimension to ours, which is another reason I assumed you two were involved. Theoretically speaking…”

                I swallow, feeling a bit like I stood up too fast. My head is spinning. “Theoretically speaking, we should be together.”

                “Yeah…but you’re also a few years behind us in your timeline. You’re, what, thirty years old?” When I nod quietly, he shrugs, squinting against the morning light that has begun slanting through the kitchen windows, “I’m thirty-three, so our dimension has a head start.”

                I blink, trying to form a coherent sentence. I manage only a stilted, “But…how…”

                Kent shakes his head, taking a deep draught of his tea. “Don’t ask me. I’m only repeating what Bruce told me yesterday.”

                It falls quiet once more, and I’m immensely glad that Kent is giving me a moment to process this new information. It changes things again, knowing this. Like tectonic plates shifting us closer to one another, I can feel reality rock back on its heels and settle into a new balance. The pain beneath my breastbone blossoms into something dangerously similar to hope. It fills me with equal parts trepidation and sadness that I’m so easily brought back to childish hope, to believing in the impossible. It means it will hurt that much more when Bruce crushes those hopes again.

                But I just can’t seem to help it. The hope, the _want_ crying out from deep inside me, is too strong to ignore.

                I pray silently that Bruce will see logic enough to recognize the strands of fate winding us together, because from where I’m sitting…it’s undeniable that something stronger than mere attraction is pulling us in.

               Kent rises a few moments later to make another mug of tea, and when he returns to the kitchen island, he’s carrying two mugs. He sets one down in front of me, and I take it gratefully, sipping the Earl Grey as he settles on the stool next to me.

               I assess him for a moment, trying to ignore the curiosity plucking at the strings in my mind. I give up when the silence stretches too long for comfort, and instead clear my throat. “So, um…how did you two…”

               “Become involved?”

                I nod, feeling a bit silly for being unable to say it outright. I suppose with time I could become more comfortable with the verbiage, but it still feels a bit forbidden.

                Kent inhales softly, and his expression slips almost immediately into the warm tones of memory, warm like butterscotch. “We were best friends for a long time. Always had feelings for each other, but we never talked about it. I guess we both figured that if we didn’t say it, it didn’t exist. You know how well _that_ works out.” He chuckles, a light sound that feels like spring rain, “But it became harder to ignore the older we got. We’d both stopped dating and people started to suspect we were together before we’d even talked about it. It became a JLA inside joke that we were… _affiliated_.”

                He shrugs, swirling the tea in his mug absently. “I was okay with not taking things further for a long time, and honestly, I was terrified he wouldn’t reciprocate my feelings if I ever spoke about them, so I kept quiet. But, eventually, I…well, I broke. I cornered him after a JLA meeting in his quarters and demanded we have a frank discussion about our relationship.”

                I smile lightly, lifting a brow, “I imagine that went well?”

                Kent laughs outright, gaze mirthful when he takes a swallow of tea again, “Suffice it say he didn’t talk to me for a couple weeks. He avoided me like the black plague and I avoided him out of shame. I thought I had imagined everything, and naturally, that I had singlehandedly destroyed our entire friendship over a crush.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully, eyes softening to jean blue. “And then one day he just…showed up at my apartment. Went on a rage about how I had complicated everything and that I was going to regret getting involved with him. God, he was mad. Scared out of his mind that I was going to wake up one day and hate him. Scared that he would break me if we took things further. I, naturally, told him how crazy that was. That I was in love with him. That nothing could change that.”

                I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until he doesn’t continue, and I’m forced to clear my throat, “And then what happened?”

                “Well, then he kissed me.” Kent offers a smile that could be the picture of blissful memory, and the expression is utterly contented, so wrought with joy and shared memories, that I feel a stab of pain in my middle. What I wouldn’t give for that.

                He lets out a soft breath, gaze drifting over to mine as he rises from the memory, “And the rest is history.”

                It’s unspoken, but I hear it even so when he smiles at me calmly. _And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be your history too._

                I stare at him, feeling like a kid hanging onto a fairytale. It shimmers between us, the possibility of what might someday be a similar future, and I try desperately to cling to it. If it were possible, I would grab handfuls of that hope, that whimsical kind of assurance, and keep it with me. Just for the days, like today, when I know I have to face Bruce. When I know that I can’t give up on us, not just yet.

                Because if this is the future we have waiting for us…why wouldn’t we take the risk? I would be a fool to run from fate. I just hope Bruce agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> First of a few chapters hopefully! Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I do not own DC or their characters. I do own this story.


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